


Bad Day

by DontForgetToPanic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, mentions of character death (not Louis or Harry)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:45:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontForgetToPanic/pseuds/DontForgetToPanic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the music video Bad Day, where they’re both a bit sad and draw on a poster frame in an underground subway.  It rains a lot, Harry has a bit of hope and Louis doesn’t have an umbrella.<br/>-<br/>just a short little piece I wrote a while ago when I was in a bad mood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Day

He’s holding his head in his hands, covering his eyes as if he’s hiding from the world instead of just sitting in his dingy living room on his second hand couch. He doesn’t look up when he hears the door to his bedroom door open, the light scrape of the wood against the carpet. The three boys are silent, as expected, but since Harry’s eyes are closed he doesn’t see the other two give each other a parting kiss, a worried glance, a small squeeze of the hand before the blond leaves through the front door of the tiny apartment, not glancing at the curly-haired boy once. The younger boy doesn’t look up as Zayn clears his throat, running one hand over his flushed face and the other smoothing down his wrinkled shirt, still partially unbuttoned due to his haste to dress again. He clears his throat again, trying to give himself more time to think of what to say, when Harry raises one hand, still keeping his eyes closed facing his knees. 

“Do you mind—mind—coming to get your stuff tomorrow? When I’m still at work?” Zayn nods, his face still flush with exertion but Harry can’t see it, can’t see anything except his ailing future. “He—He’s still outside, right? He doesn’t mind you staying with him right?” Zayn tries to answer but Harry’s shaking his head, dropping both his hands to rest in his lap but still keeping his eyes closed, quite practiced in hiding from the things that hurt. 

“Harry, I’m sorry, I—” The younger boy shakes his head, waving his hand and mumbling a good bye, silently cursing himself for being so naive.  
——————————————————————————————————————————-  
It’s raining, a rather cliché thing to be happening he thinks bitterly, holding the death black umbrella over his head to hide from the rain, although if he took it down the umbrella he might be able to hide form his own tears. The cemetery doesn’t have many lights on, understandable really he thinks, because what idiot would want to go to the cemetery at one in the morning (this idiot, Louis thinks with a bitter laugh). He’s staring at a rather simple headstone, an average grey with an average engraving on an average plot in an average cemetery (all for an above average man who the world will only ever see as average). It’s been long enough that the grass has grown back to cover the grave, smooth green bowing down due to the assaulting rain pounding down around them, and the flowers left from over a month before are wilting, blackened by time (just like everything else in his life, blackened by time). He closes his eyes and pretends that he’s younger, at home during the storm around him, happier with someone there to hold during the night. 

He’s never been very good at pretending.

Opening his eyes again Louis stares down at where his Liam lays, covered by layers of dirt and hopelessness. Shaking his head, as if to shake away any bad thoughts (bad thoughts, worrisome sadness shaking depressing rain—rain—rain) Louis looks back down, forcing the smile that Liam would love, loved. He forces the words to form, pushes the sentence from his throat to his lips because this isn’t for him this is for Liam, even after all these years alone everything is for Liam.

“Happy Anniversary.”

Louis turns around and begins his walk home, throwing the umbrella in the trash along the way, because it was never really his to begin with.  
———————————————————————————————————————-  
“You should sleep with his sister or something to get back at him.” Nick yells across the room, shrugging his shoulders and winking at the middle-aged woman glaring at him near the packaged foods display. Harry is unfazed, quite used to anything Nick says, so he just keeps on unpacking the grapes from their crates and depositing them in the produce section. Nick, as anyone who’s ever met him might know, is not a patient man so he hops down from his seat on top of the checkout counter and sashays over to the younger boy, moving his hips a bit more forcefully that particularly necessary in order to put on a show for the woman who’s still glaring at him. Harry rolls his eyes when Nick stops in front of him.

“I’m not sleeping with his sister, Nick. Anyone who’s ever met Zayn and Niall know that they’re going to end up together eventually, I was just being stupid thinking that they wouldn’t.” The older boy rolls his eyes but just reaches over to grab an apple, biting into it with mild force. “I don’t think you’re supposed to eat the produce you don’t pay for…or the ones you don’t wash.” Nick shrugs and takes another bite, smiling at Harry’s slightly disgusted face.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be so calm when you catch your boyfriend fucking his best friend in your bed.”

“I’m not calm, I just know there’s nothing I can do about it so there’s no use being pissy.” Nick rolls his eyes and mumbles something about slashing his tires, his words slurred after taking another bite of the apple. “He doesn’t have a car, so I can’t really. Now stop being a baby and help me out.” Nick grumbles but starts helping to unpack the grapes, whining about how he could be getting drunk right now and Harry really never thought that he would ever be the responsible one out of his friends. The automatic door opens and Nick hopes that the lady’s leaving but instead a man about his age wanders in, looking a little bit lost and a lot wet. 

“Who is that, I want one.” Harry looks up and follows Nicks gaze and his eyes fall on the boy who’s now lurking in the alcohol section, adjusting his black satchel so it’s hanging on his shoulder while shaking his dripping head spraying water all over the floor (Harry doesn’t mind as much as he should that he’s the one who has to clean up later). 

“Nick, you’re such a slag.”

“The best you’ve ever had.” They fall into silent laughter but Harry never lets his eyes drift from the boy (who’s now in the demanding debate over if he should get red or white wine). He has sad eyes, the kind that look as if they haven’t smiled in a while with wrinkles near the corners that have started forming much too soon. Harry doesn’t deny that he’s beautiful, even as he stands there in his rapidly growing puddle, his eyes rimmed red and cheeks flushed. He eventually decides on the red wine, pulling it off the shelf and walking over to the check out counter, his face low as if defeated. Nick moves as if to go to the front but Harry catches him by the back of his blue uniform shirt, pulling him back a little before moving in front of him, ignoring Nick’s pout as he moves to the check out counter. The boy is bouncing on his heels, clicking his nails against the counter as he waits for an attendant, brushing some of the water from his eye with a thumb. Harry stops behind the counter and gives the boy a smile, the one with the dimples that makes anyone who breathes fall to their knees. The boy forces a smile that dies halfway through, shuffling through his bag for his wallet, pulling out his credit card and placing it on the counter.

“It’s pouring outside, we sell umbrellas you know, it might…”

“No, that’s okay.” The boy doesn’t look up, staring at his hands still tapping on the counter, and Harry doesn’t know why he’s already becoming fascinated with this boy that he’ll probably never see again. Harry scans the wine before reaching over to grab his card (Louis Tomlinson, his card expires next year), swiping it before—-ping.

“Um sorry but it says that the card is declined?” Louis looks up, meeting Harry’s eyes for the first time that night and the younger boy shivers a bit, blaming it on the cold (lie). 

“Can you, can you try again?” Louis’ eyes are puffy and red around the edges Harry notices, but otherwise they’re quite nice (although a bit too easy to get lost in, not something he should be noticing at work). He swipes the card again and the pinging sound goes again. Louis squints his eyes and makes a soft desperate noise in the back of his throat, standing there silent for a moment before frantically digging through his bag, mumbling about having some cash, pulling out a few pounds from his wallet and handfuls of change from the bottom of his bag, dropping it on the counter before digging for more. At the end Louis only has about enough money to pay for half but Harry just smiles and takes it, reminding himself to pay the difference later. 

“Have a nice day.” Harry feels stupid right after saying that, grimacing at himself because obviously this boy doesn’t look like he’s going to have a nice day (and also, it’s not day it’s night). Louis shakes his head, asking for a paper bag instead of plastic.

“Great day, going to go and get drunk off cheap wine in my crap apartment with all the lights off.” Harry doesn’t say anything (doesn’t know what to say) and Louis nods at him, lifting the bag wrapped around the wine bottle in a mock solute before leaving the same way he came in. Harry watches his retreating back, staring at the doors long after he’s gone and the woman’s clearing her throat to get his attention.

Harry leaves a few minutes later, a bit early for his shift but he tells Nick he’s got homework (Nick of course complains but he can never deny Harry anything, honestly it’s quite sad). It’s still raining when he goes outside, pulling a red umbrella out and opening it, trying his hardest not to walk in the puddles because his shoes are thin and he’s not in the mood for wet socks. The underground’s not too far away, only taking about ten minutes at the leisurely pace he’s in, and when he goes down the stairs it’s fairly crowded, people getting off their nightshifts ready to go home for the day. 

There’s a poster up that is commonly seen in subways, covered in a protective clear plastic frame about the size of a small wall, and Harry takes a step back (tripping over a tiny lady in a poncho and snow shoes) as he watches on with fascination. Louis has out a black sharpie, like one he would carry if he were famous and handing out autographs at every turn, and he’s standing in front of the framed poster, contemplating his handiwork. It’s an ad for a depression medication (although at first glance you have no idea what it’s advertising), with a young man about Harry’s age sitting on a bus bench in the center, everything else a white backdrop except for in the right hand corner where the name of the company is. Louis though, in all his glory and optimism, drew a storm cloud over the model on the advert with rain pouring down onto him not unlike the rain outside. Dropping his shoulders like he just finished running a 5K, Louis throws his pen back in his bag and turns around, just making it onto the next train. Harry watches Louis go, staying in the same spot as the people rush around him. Suddenly, as if being hit with quite a large object (something Harry’s used to, working to Nick and all) he jolts to the left, tripping over his own feet in a haste to run up to the poster, keeping one hand in his own bag to find his red sharpie. Pulling it out Harry smiles to himself, uncapping the pen and standing on his toes to reach.  
————————————————————————-  
When Louis gets to work he’s hungover, cold, and wet. 

“Tomlinson, did you get those reports…”

“Yes, I put them on your desk yesterday night, after you had already gone.” Robert (Mr. Carrington, when Louis actually speaks, but he’s always Robert in his head) nods, rolling his wide shoulders back and buttoning his large blazer before stepping into his office. Rolling his own shoulders back in mock formality, Louis stalks over to his cubical, flopping down on his lumpy chair with limited finesse, rolling his head around as if it could stop his raging headache.

“So, you look like hell.” He doesn’t need to glace up (hell, he doesn’t want to glance up) to know Stan’s leaning against his feeble desk, staring at him with his arms crossed and eyebrows permanently knitted together.

“You know what I realized last night?” Stan groans and lets his head fall back, not wanting another one of Louis’ moody rants but willing to listen anyway, because he’s such a wonderful friend and without Louis he wouldn’t have anyone to be his wingman (of which Louis is terrible at, honestly). “I realized,” Louis goes on, eyes closed, “that I don’t have a real job.”

“Oh come on Lou…”

“No, no hear me out,” Louis says, raising one hand and finally opening his eyes to stare at his friends with just a little bit of insanity, “what do I even do? I sell time for radio adverts…what even is that? I sell time.”

“There’s nothing wrong with…”

“You know what I wanted to do?” Louis asks, his eyes wide and hands splayed out on his cheeks. Stan shakes his head even though he does in fact know, only willing to play along to please Louis, “I wanted to be a singer. Now what am I doing? Selling BBC fifty seconds to advertise their shows.” Louis slumps down in his chair, kicking his legs out like an insolent child and throwing his arms to his sides. 

“Well, now that you’re done with your little existential crisis…”

“I’m not sure you know what an existential crisis is…”

“I’m going to go to work, because I need some money to take my new girlfriend out.” Louis smiles (which Stan knows as his fake smile, but he’ll take what he can get) and congratulates his friend on snagging a girl (even though he knows it’ll last a week, tops).

It’s still raining after work, pouring down and forming puddles in the most inconvenient places so that by the time Louis makes it to the tube his socks are wet and his clothes are wet and his hair is wet and he’s just wet (and not in the nice, girl type of way. Although according to Louis that’s not a really nice wet either. Stan finds it quite nice though). He’s five minutes early (or twenty minutes late, depending on how you judge things) so Louis just looks around, deciding whether or not he wants to sit on the sketchy looking benching littered about, when he sees the poster he drew on yesterday, a smug looking man holding a cup of coffee in his smug looking hand. But now, instead of just having the black raincloud and corresponding rain, someone drew in red sharpie an umbrella, drawn so that the man looks like he’s holding it in the same hand he’s holding his coffee. 

Well this defiantly won’t do, Louis thinks as he pulls out his black sharpie and puts his artistic skills to the test.  
—————————————————————————  
Harry believes in fate, he believes that everyone is put on earth for a reason and that they all deserve flowers and happiness and true love and smiles (completely with sarcastic unicorns, Louis would say with a roll of his eyes if he was listening to Harry’s inner monologue). Harry believes in fate, so when he sees Louis standing outside an office building as Harry is on his way to work after Uni; Louis is already soaking wet because he’s an idiot and refuses to own an umbrella for whatever messed up reason. In that moment, watching the other man turn to walk down the opposite way, Harry decides that they’re destined to be together (Louis would scoff and tell Harry that he’s naive, that heartbreak is just one second and a cancer patient away) (Harry would agree, and then go on to say that he’s quite content with being naïve now that he thinks about it).

Harry’s not a stalker, at least that’s what he tells himself as he follows the other man down the street. Harry’s not being creepy, at least, that’s what he tells himself as he misses the turn to go to work, instead following Louis down into the underground station. 

He watches Louis pause, shaking out his wet hair with a frown on his otherwise beautiful face. The older boy stops mid motion when he sees the poster frame, and as he draws it takes over fifteen minutes, enough time to miss his train and almost miss the following one, finishes with a flourish and running to get in line for the train. 

Harry probably should have been more patient, really, but instead he just walks straight up to the poster, taking a second to admire Louis’ handiwork. It’s a taxi, drawn as if it’s driving right out of the frame but making a sharp turn to the left just in time, hitting a puddle and sending rain water and mud splashing on course as if to hit the man with the umbrella. Harry looks over and thinks he sees a flash of blue, but just as quickly nothings there, just the crowd getting on the train. Turning back towards the poster, he pulls out his red sharpie and begins to draw.  
———————————————————————-  
Louis recognizes him, of course, he’s the man at the register with the dimples, curls and voice that should belong to an angel model (they have those, right?). He has it in his mind to call out and ask him to wait, but just as quickly the boy (oh dear, now what did his nametag say again?) finishes his drawing and turned away, walking back out the way he came. Slowly walking back to the poster, Louis doesn’t care as he misses his train, instead letting his mouth form that smile that’s been feeling neglected lately (for about three years, actually) as he takes in the other’s drawing, large in red sharpie. 

It’s a man, a self-portrait if you will, sitting next to the original model, his curly hair huge in disarray. The curly-haired boy drew the second man looking at the original model as if he’s asking a question, holding one side of his jacket out to stop the water that was on its course to hit the man due to the speeding taxi. 

 

And right in between the two is drawn a question mark.  
———————————————————————-  
He doesn’t expect to see anything drawn yet, knowing that Louis already got on the tube before Harry had finished his own portrait, but he stops to look anyway, quite happy with the way he drew himself, holding his jacket open as if to keep Louis dry. 

 

He’s quite surprised, you see, when he notices the other side of his red question mark is filled in, the red now connected with black, forming its own little heart. 

 

The next day Louis’ standing in the same spot outside the office building, already soaking wet and shivering, pulling his coat tighter around himself as he gets ready to make his way down to the underground when suddenly the rain stops falling on him but is still falling everywhere else and there’s a warm body standing next to him, one arm hanging loose while the other holds a bright red umbrella over their heads.

 

Harry knows he can get used to Louis smiling at him like he is now, skin crinkled around the edges of his eyes, a tiny scar showing by his eyebrow that’s only noticeable when he’s happy, and something in his eyes as if he might, maybe, can be happy.


End file.
